“Strong how, Gran?” I asked.

“In the ways that count, sweet girl,” she said, patting her chest over her heart. “The ways doctors can’t measure.”

I was born with a heart condition. By age seven, I’d been through several surgeries. There were years when hospital beds felt more familiar than my own pink and white bedroom. A thick, pale scar ran down my chest, making me pull my shirts up higher than other girls.

But Grandma Rose never treated me like I was fragile. She made me feel complete.

Back then, she was my everything—my safe haven, my warmth. Grandma Rose was the one steady thing in my life.

But things shifted.

As I grew older, life sped up, or maybe I just stopped savoring the quiet moments. My parents, always after more, showered me with wealth like it was a prize. Suddenly, my world was filled with designer clothes, ski vacations, private school fees, and summers in Italy.